


Hold On (I Still Want You)

by Herenya_writes



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But Jim will make it better, Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Pon Farr, Spock is an angsty boi, Suicide Attempt, T'hy'la, Tumblr Prompt, spontaneous bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herenya_writes/pseuds/Herenya_writes
Summary: What if, after the kal-if-fee, Spock still felt he deserved punishment for all the wrongs he had caused? What if, in the burning sands of Vulcan, he had bonded with his captain without the man's consent? What if he had hurt his t'hy'la? What would he do then? Well, there is only one logical solution when harm comes to one's t'hy'la—remove the source of that harm.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 48
Kudos: 373





	Hold On (I Still Want You)

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a tumblr anon prompt, where the anon requested some Amok Time angst. This fic was beta'd by the lovely voulezvulcan on Tumblr, any remaining mistakes are my own. Title is from the song "Hold On" by Chord Overstreet. 
> 
> As stated in the tags, there is an attempted suicide—ye be warned.

Spock didn’t feel the heat of the dry Vulcan air around him—it was nothing compared to the heat that had his blood boiling inside. He didn’t feel the grit of sand or the gazes of the dozen or so people watching him. The only thing he felt was the texture of the ahn-won in his hands as he tightened it around his opponent’s throat, mouth curled in a snarl. His gaze was unfocused, and he didn’t truly see the one he was fighting. All he knew was that this one stood between him and victory, between him and the thing that would douse the fire in his blood.

Hands scrabbled weakly at his neck seeking purchase there, and his opponent made a choked sound that he dimly recognized as his own name. It did not matter. Pleading would not save the man, but the man had fought well, and Spock did him the honor of raising his eyes so that their gazes met. At that moment, a bolt of clarity struck his mind and the fever-haze lifted as familiar, understanding eyes gazed up at him. The man’s hand is weak as it finds his face, but a spark jumps between them anyway, and Spock’s eyes widen as he recognizes the light that is blooming in his mind.

The fever is gone, and Spock drops the ahn-won as if it has burned him, but it is too late. The hand that had been caressing his cheek falls, and Jim’s eyes close. He has killed his t’hy’la.

The bond in his mind withers and Spock can feel the sickly rot set in. 

The sound of another voice breaks him from the grief that is curling around his mind and heart, and he looks up to see Doctor McCoy crouching next to him. “Get your hands off of him, Spock!” he demands, rage shaking every syllable of his words.

Spock didn’t realize he had been clutching Jim’s shirt in his fist, and he released it. The doctor quickly gathered Jim’s body in his arms and checked for a pulse, but Spock knew it was useless. He could no longer hear the sound of lifeblood pumping through Jim’s veins. After a long moment, McCoy looked up across the sands to T’pau and shook his head slowly. “He's finished.” His words were little more than a whisper, but they carried over the stunned silence that had fallen upon the sands. “He's dead.” The Vulcan elder nodded and rose. 

“I grieve with thee.”

The doctor didn’t reply except to flip open his communicator. Spock’s mind drifted, his gaze focused on the sweat-slicked hair that stuck to his t’hy’la’s face. Even in death, he looked active, as if at any moment he would sit up and declare that while this had been an interesting experience, it wasn’t one that he wanted to repeat. But Jim would never move or speak again. A sob threatened to claw its way from Spock’s throat, but he shoved it back. 

The sound of McCoy calling his name once again roused him from his mind as the doctor asked what his orders were. Orders? He had killed his captain, his  _ t’hy’la _ , and he was expected to give orders? But no, he could not simply forsake his duties—he owed Jim that. Jim would have wanted him to make sure that the Enterprise was safe and ready to continue performing its duty for Starfleet, regardless of what happened to him. 

“You will instruct Mister Chekov to plot a course for the nearest Starbase where I must surrender myself to the authorities,” he stated, rising from the sand. The doctor nodded once and then the transporter beam sounded, and both he and Jim disappeared. Spock stared at the place where Jim had fallen for a long moment before turning toward the Vulcans at the edge of the ring. 

His gaze turned to T’pring, and when their eyes met, the pain in his mind settled into a frigid cold, and when he spoke next, his father would have been proud of the complete lack of emotion in his voice. He demanded an explanation for her actions, and her response was flawlessly logical. He had won the challenge, and by all rights, T’pring was his, but his blood no longer burned for her and likely never had. He released her from their bond, the pain in his mind magnifying tenfold when she turned to Stonn and the two shared a brief ozh’esta. He blinked once to clear his mind and turned to T’pau.

The woman was gazing at him with an unreadable expression, but Spock found he did not care if the elder approved of what she saw in him. He opened his communicator and ordered the transporter readied. “Live long, T’pau, and prosper,” he intoned, voice empty as he held up the ta’al. 

She bowed her head slightly and copied the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Spock.”

He opened his mouth to give the order to energize, but the words that followed were not what he had intended. “I will do neither,” he said, and as the words fell he knew the truth of them. “I have killed my captain and my friend.”  _ My t’hy’la. _ “Energize.” The last thing he saw was a dawning realization on the elder’s face.

. . .

Jim woke to the lights of Sickbay. For a moment, he couldn’t remember what he had done this time to wind up here, but as he tilted his head to the side in thought his neck twinged in pain and brought everything rushing back. Spock! He sat up quickly and looked around the room for the Vulcan but didn’t see him anywhere. What had happened down there? The last thing he remembered was seeing the madness fade from Spock’s eyes as the ahn-won tightened around his throat.

He was swinging his legs over the biobed when the door opened and Bones stepped through, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Lay down, Jim,” he ordered, pushing him back onto the bed. “You just about died on that dustball of a planet, and you aren’t getting up until I run a few more tests.”

For once, Jim didn’t protest as the doctor ran a tricorder over him. “What happened, Bones?” He asked as the man began to compare the results of the scan to something on his PADD. “I thought the kal-if-fee was a fight to the death. Is Spock alright?” There was no way he had managed to harm his friend, but Spock wasn’t here and—

Bones must have heard the fear in Jim’s voice because he set the PADD down and placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “As far as I could tell, the hobgoblin’s fine. The plak-tow or whatever they called that fever seemed to be gone when I beamed back up with you. I ordered the ensign manning the transporter to send him to the Sickbay as soon as he beams up, though. You both took a beating.”

Jim blinked, processing everything Bones had just said. Spock was alive, and the fever was gone. “Why am I not dead? Is Spock’s pon farr over? Are he and T’pring married now?” He couldn’t say the words fast enough, his mind swimming with questions and imagined scenarios.

Bones held up a hand. “Slow down, Jim. I don’t know about Spock or T’pring, but I can tell you the only reason you’re not dead now is because I gave you a neural paralyzer instead of a tri-ox compound.” 

“You tricked Spock into thinking he had killed me,” Jim said slowly as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “How did you know that would work?”

His friend snorted. “I didn’t, but it was the only thing I could think of that wouldn’t get you or Spock killed. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you, Bones.”

“No problem. Now put on a clean shirt so you can meet your boyfriend when he shows up.”

Jim spluttered as a fresh command shirt was thrust into his hands. “He isn’t my boyfriend!” It was too late, Bones had already walked out the door, laughing as he did. Jim looked down at the shirt in his hands and sighed. He and Spock weren’t dating—Spock didn’t feel like that towards him, and Jim knew better than to try and woo a Vulcan, as much as he wanted to. But Spock was alive, and Jim had only had to die a little bit, and that counted as a win in his book.

He grinned to himself as he pulled on the new shirt. His head felt strange, likely an aftereffect of the neural paralyzer, but other than that and his destroyed shirt, there was no sign that he had been fighting to the death with his first officer and friend less than half an hour ago. Bones really was a miracle-worker.

As he smoothed out the shirt, he heard the door to the sickbay hiss open immediately followed by that low voice Jim knew so well. The words were self-condemning, and he realized with a start that Spock still didn’t know he was alive. “There can be no excuse for the crime of which I'm guilty,” he was saying, his voice carefully flat. Jim had known the Vulcan long enough to recognize that he was exercising all of his control to keep any emotion from seeping into his words. “I intend to offer no defense. Furthermore, I shall order Mister Scott to take immediate command of this vessel.”

Jim couldn’t stay silent any longer. He stepped through the door and put on his best I-am-the-captain-of-the-USS-Enterprise face. Spock was standing perfectly straight, hands clasped behind his back and face blank. The sight made something in Jim ache, but he pushed the feeling down and plastered on a grin.

“Don't you think you better check with me first?”

. . .

Spock whipped toward the sound of his t’hy’la’s voice. It wasn’t possible, and yet there he stood, wearing a fresh command shirt and bearing no marks of the kal-if-fee. He reacted without thinking, stepping forward and grasping Jim by the shoulders. “Captain! Jim!” he exclaimed, completely unable to stop the smile that spread onto his face. Jim shifted in his grasp, and his fingers brushed against the man’s neck, and a spark jumped between them as it had on the planet below. This time, however, Spock was aware enough to feel hints of Jim’s emotions. There was joy and amusement and gratitude, but those emotions were quickly overshadowed by confusion and fear.

Jim did not know of the bond, but he could sense that something had changed.

How could he know of it? He was a psi-null human, and the bond had been forced upon him in the heat of combat when he was barely clinging to life and consciousness. Spock withdrew his hand and stepped back, nearly colliding with Doctor McCoy as he did so. The link in his mind glowed brightly, but he could still sense the taint that wove through it. He had claimed Jim’s mind as his own without permission and then harmed his bondmate. The only reason Jim was not dead by his hand was because of the interference of Doctor McCoy.

He had almost killed his t’hy’la.

“Spock? Are you alright?” Concern coated Jim’s words, but Spock could still hear, and feel, the confusion underneath it. As soon as Jim understood what had happened—he would figure it out soon, of that Spock had no doubt—that confusion would turn to anger. And it would be his fault. 

“I am fine, t—Captain,” he replied stiffly before turning to the doctor. “I would like to request a medical leave of absence for the next twenty-four hours. I also ask that I not be disturbed. I must meditate and regain my equilibrium.”

Doctor McCoy blinked, taken aback by his blunt words. It was rare that he ever asked to be removed from duty for any reason, much less a medical one once the immediate danger had passed. But eventually, McCoy nodded. “Of course, Spock. I was going to recommend as much.”

“Take all the time you need,” Jim interjected, and Spock was helpless to do anything but turn and meet his unwilling bondmate’s gaze. “Is there anything else that we can do to help?” 

Spock shook his head once, no longer trusting in his ability to conceal his emotions from his voice. He nodded to the doctor and Nurse Chapel who had just walked into the room before turning on his heel and striding out of sickbay, heading straight to his quarters. 

Once he was inside, he locked the door to his quarters—Doctor McCoy might have promised him privacy, but Spock knew human curiosity would likely win out in the end—and leaned against the door, trying in vain to slow his rapid heartbeat. He stayed like that for a long time, and under different circumstances, he might have worried that his internal chronometer had ceased to function, but today he barely gave it a passing thought.

He had been a fool. When he had first realized that his t’hy’la was alive, the only thing he had felt was joy. Now, he knew better. He could feel, in his mind, his link to Jim. If he concentrated, he could feel worry and confusion and fear from over the bond, but he quickly drew away. He had no right to know Jim’s thoughts, and as Jim could not shield his own thoughts from the bond, it was Spock’s duty to protect them both. With that in mind, he pushed away from the door and stumbled toward his meditation mat. It was still out from when he had tried in vain to meditate the pon farr away. He collapsed to his knees and focused on his breathing. He had to shield his mind. He had to protect Jim.

. . .

Jim watched Spock leave the sickbay with a frown. He knew Spock had felt whatever it was that had passed between them when they touched, and it was obvious the Vulcan didn’t want to discuss it. Part of Jim wanted to follow him and demand an explanation, but he knew it was likely some aftereffect of the pon farr, and Spock had suffered enough indignities for one day. Forcing him to explain yet another aspect of the biology he despised so much would be cruel. 

“Is Mr. Spock alright?” Nurse Chapel asked and Jim looked to Bones for an answer. It seemed obvious that Spock wasn’t, but it also seemed obvious that the worst of everything was over. His first officer was alive and no longer bordering on madness, but there was still something wrong, and Jim ached to fix it. Hadn’t Spock been through enough?

Bones shrugged. “He didn’t give me a chance to run a scan, but as far as I can tell the fever is gone, and he doesn’t seem to be acting as erratically as before,” he said. “It may not be completely out of his system yet, but I think the worst is over.”

Christine nodded slowly. “I’m glad. Did Mr. Spock get married to that woman while he was on Vulcan?” 

Jim’s stomach clenched. The thought of Spock marrying someone who obviously didn’t care for him made him sick, and he prayed to whatever gods were listening that Spock had rejected her. He didn’t even know if that was possible since Spock had won the kal-if-fee, but he knew Spock deserved better than T’pring. 

“I don’t know,” Bones answered after a moment, shrugging again. “I’ll ask Spock once he comes out of his self-isolation an’ change his records if he did.”

The nurse nodded and then moved past Jim into the room he had been lying in and began cleaning it up. Jim stepped forward and allowed the door to close behind him so that he and Bones were alone in the room.

“I’m worried about him,” he said softly, remembering the brief flash of horror that had crossed Spock’s face when they had touched. “If he was forced to marry that woman…”

Bones folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “I don’t think he did, Jim. You should have seen him after he thought he’d killed you. He was ready to toss himself in the brig for the rest of his life for what he thought he’d done.” He shook his head. “I don’t think he took the time to get hitched while he was down there.”

The pressure in Jim’s chest eased up slightly. He nodded and was about to step past Bones—Scotty would probably appreciate it if he relieved him of bridge duty and let him get back to engineering—when the man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you ever goin’ to tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Jim replied innocently as his stomach did a somersault. 

Bones huffed out an unimpressed sigh. “You were ready to die for him Jim, and don’t give me any of that nonsense about it being your duty. It’s different with Spock and you know it.”

Jim glanced at the door that Chapel was behind before shrugging and giving a half-hearted smile. “I can’t lose him,” he said simply. “I just can’t.”

The stern expression on his friend’s face softened. “I know, Jim, but if you don’t tell him how you feel, you might anyway. I doubt T’pring is the only person who had an eye on the hobgoblin.” He nodded to the door behind Jim. ”One day, Spock might just say yes to someone.”

His stomach rolled again, and Jim squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to banish the vision of Spock holding some faceless woman. “And what if I tell him and he pushes me away?” He asked, opening his eyes to look at his friend. “We both know he doesn’t like to mess with emotions, especially not something as convoluted as love.”

Bones sighed again and pushed off the wall. “I don’t know, Jim. I don’t think Spock would do that to you, but you won’t know if you don’t try. Give him some time to get the pon farr out of his system, and then go talk to him. I’m putting you on a twenty-four-hour leave as well.”

“But Scotty—”

Bones shook his head. “Nope, no complaints. Sulu’s already agreed to take over for Scotty, and you need rest.” 

Jim thought about protesting, but then a spike of pain flared to life in his head for a few seconds before dying away, and he decided that some time off wouldn’t be too bad. “Fine, but if Starfleet contacts the ship, I want to know.” He couldn’t imagine how much trouble they were going to be in for the delay to Altair, and there was no way he was going to force someone else to be his scapegoat for the angry messages from Starfleet Command he knew would come.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jim,” Bones said, giving him a nudge toward the door. “If you need pain medication or something to help you sleep, just comm sickbay and I’ll have something sent to your quarters.”

“Thanks again, Bones,” Jim said as he stepped through the door. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Bones rolled his eyes with a grin and the door slid shut. Once it did, Jim realized just how tired he really was. A nap couldn’t hurt, right? And maybe when he woke up this pressure in his head would be gone. 

. . .

Spock breathed deeply in, held the breath for several counts, and then exhaled before repeating the cycle. Typically, he didn’t need to exaggerate his breathing patterns so much in order to attain a proper meditation, but today had been anything but typical thus far, and it was illogical to believe that that pattern would break any time soon.

He had managed to shield the bond after a half-hour or so—his internal chronometer was still not functioning as it should—and now he was devoting his energy to finding a way to repair the damage that he had done to his captain and friend. Already, the link between their minds was strong, stronger than his and T’pring’s had ever been, stronger even than most bonded couples’ on Vulcan were.

For a time, he had contemplated simply returning to Vulcan and requesting the services of a mind-healer. There were many on the planet who were skilled in assessing the health of a bond, and he knew that it was possible for them to break an unhealthy bond. That idea had been dismissed, however. The t’hy’la bond was extremely rare and also extremely strong. Though it had existed for only a few scant hours, Spock knew that it was too deeply embedded in his mind to be removed without causing him great harm. That would not deter him—he deserved any punishment inflicted on him and more—but he knew that the process would also cause Jim immense pain. For the t’hy’la bond to form as instantaneously as it had, their minds had to be extremely compatible, which meant that the link in Jim’s mind was buried as deeply as the one in Spock’s. 

No, having a Vulcan healer sever the bond would not work.

Perhaps he could weaken the bond through time and distance. His bond with T’pring had once been strong, but it had waned over the years that they had been parted, and Spock had returned to Vulcan only a handful of times since he had left in his youth. Could a similar tactic be used now? He would have to leave the Enterprise, even resign from Starfleet altogether knowing Jim’s stubbornness, but that was a small price to pay indeed for the continued safety and well-being of his captain.

It would take time, however, and if the bond did not dim before his next pon farr arrived, he would be drawn to Jim, and there would not be a force in the known universe that would be able to keep him away. He would either die in the fires of the plak-tow, or he would force himself on his friend. He shuddered at the thought, the movement nearly drawing him out of his meditation. He could not leave such a circumstance up to fate.

Suddenly, the confusion and fear in his mind evaporated, and he was left with a single thought. A solution that would cause Jim pain initially, yes, but would allow the man to move on unburdened by both Spock and the bond. It would not put any responsibility on the man’s shoulders—for Jim would surely allow himself to be bound to Spock if he knew that it would prevent the plak-tow from occurring again—while providing a permanent solution. 

The  _ shai-tevakh.  _ That was the solution he sought.

Once he reached his answer, a calm fell over Spock, and the last vestiges of the pon-farr disappeared. He rose from his meditation mat in a fluid movement and strode over to his computer to record messages for his mother and for Jim. The two humans in his life who would not understand, but who he loved above all else.

. . .

Jim tossed and turned in his bed. He had been trying to fall asleep for the last hour or so, but every time he started to drift off, he was jolted back awake by...something. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but every time he woke he could feel a faint pressure in his head, almost as if someone or something were pushing against the barriers of his mind. It wasn’t uncomfortable, really, just strange, and the longer it lasted the less certain he was that it was a side effect of the neural paralyzer. Maybe being down on Vulcan had messed with his mind somehow? Vulcans were touch telepaths, but he knew from the few readings he could find that they gave off distinct telepathic signatures in an aura around them. Had he picked up on these somehow?

Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep altogether. He had already showered and changed into sweats and an old Academy t-shirt, and he didn’t feel like changing again, so instead of going to the gym the way he normally did when he couldn’t sleep, he pulled down one of the few paper books he had with him and flipped it open. Maybe if he distracted himself enough with a story he would be able to trick his mind into letting him sleep.

. . .

“Computer, open voice recording program, destination: Amanda Grayson of Vulcan, to be sent in twenty-four standard hours unless overridden by myself,” Spock ordered as he stood across from the computer, hands folded behind his back in a perfect parade rest.

“Program open, destination confirmed.”

Spock allowed his eyes to close for just an instant, picturing the small smile his mother had always bestowed on him whenever he did something to make her proud. That smile would not accompany this message, he knew, but she had always said that humans found closure in the form of an explanation helpful when grieving. He took a breath and opened his eyes.

“Begin recording.” The computer beeped, signaling that whatever he said now would be recorded and sent to his mother at the specified time. “Mother, I am recording this message with the intention of explaining to you my actions, although I do not expect you to understand them fully. By now, you will have been informed by Starfleet that I am dead. I do not know what details you will have been given, so I will explain the circumstances.” He stared straight ahead, seeing his mother’s grief-stricken face in his mind’s eye.

“I entered pon farr and was transported to Vulcan where T’pring, she who was to be my wife, called upon her right to challenge me. She desired the hand of Stonn in my place, and she chose my captain, James Kirk, as her challenger. The captain accepted, and although I attempted to dissuade T’pau from that course of action, we met in combat. The intervention of the ship’s Medical Officer, Doctor McCoy, allowed the captain to survive the kal-if-fee while faking death, but the fact is that I would have killed him and believed I had.

“During the kal-if-fee, a bond formed between the captain and me without his permission. It is strong and cannot be removed without great pain for both of us. Thus, I have elected to sever the bond with my own death.” He paused. He had only ever seen his mother cry once when he was young, and the sight had ruined his emotional control for weeks following the event. “I understand that you will be angry with me, and I ask only that you do not direct your anger at the captain. He does not know of the bond nor my reasons for my actions.” 

His voice suddenly caught in his throat, and he had to swallow to force the next words out. “There are many who believe that your blood made me weak in some form but know that this is not the case. Farewell, Mother. I love you.” He swallowed once more. “End recording.”

He took several deep breaths, slowing his heartbeat and forcing his thoughts to fall into line, his emotions to sink beneath the surface of his mind once more. If he allowed himself to show excessive emotion in his next recording, Jim would undoubtedly glean the truth of his actions and blame himself. He could not allow that.

He adjusted his stance before once more ordering the computer to open the recording program, this time with the captain as the recipient. The computer gave its signaling beep, and Spock took one last breath before recording his last words to his t’hy’la.

“Captain, Jim,” he said, “I know that you do not understand my actions and that you may believe that some outside force has caused my death, but this is not the case. I am in full possession of my faculties—the last of the fever has left me—and do this of my own free will. Understand that my actions in no way reflect a failing on your part or the part of any others aboard the Enterprise. My death is the logical conclusion to my own actions, actions that have violated the most ancient laws of my people as well as those of Starfleet.

“You should not have been forced to participate in the kal-if-fee, regardless of whether you understood the stakes or not. Had it not been for Doctor McCoy’s timely intervention, you would be dead at my hand, a crime graver than any other.

“Serving by your side has been the greatest honor of my career, Captain,” he said, mind flashing through a hundred memories. “You taught me to embrace both sides of my nature, and although I do not believe I ever did so to the extent that you desired, you never pushed me to behave as anyone other than myself. For that, I am endlessly grateful.

“Do not mourn me. I am at peace with my decision. Continue to explore the stars and do as no one before you has done and what no one after you will be able to replicate. Your destiny is on the bridge of a starship, and it is my hope that you never forget that. Live long and prosper, Jim.”

He ordered the recording to end, and the computer beeped in acknowledgment. For several minutes, he simply stood there, his mind swirling with emotions and memories he would not be able to bury even if he tried. Under it all, however, was a deep peace. With his actions, Jim would be safe. He allowed a small smile onto his face as he crossed the room and settled onto his bed.

Hands folded lightly on his stomach, he closed his eyes and began the process of slowing his breathing and stopping his heart.

. . .

Reading was not working. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—he had managed to get engrossed in the book for a good half-hour or so, and then a throbbing pain had begun to build behind his eyes. It was worse than a headache but not quite a migraine, and there was no way he was going to be able to concentrate on his book while it was going on. He thought about trying to go back to sleep, but he knew that would be just as useless. Then, his eyes fell on the boxed chess set that sat on the corner of his desk.

He and Spock hadn’t played in over a week, ever since Spock had started distancing himself. The Vulcan had said that he didn’t want to be disturbed while he rebuilt his shields and meditated, but Spock had also insisted that his presence was never unwelcome, and right now, Jim craved to see Spock, to confirm once again that this madness was over and they could go back to being friends. There was no harm in asking, right? After all, if Spock really didn’t want to be disturbed, all he had to do was tell Jim to leave and he would. 

With that thought in mind, Jim stood from his chair and grabbed the chess set. He was still in his lounge clothes, but he knew Spock wouldn’t mind, so he stepped out the door and strode the few meters down the hall to Spock’s room. 

It was only a few steps, but he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face as he took them. It had been too long since he had been able to just sit in Spock’s presence, playing chess without the worries of the ship to distract him. The games meant a lot to him, more than they should, more than they meant to Spock for certain, but he treasured them. 

He raised the hand not holding the chessboard and knocked on the door. There was no response. He lingered, knowing that the Vulcan may have been meditating, in which case it would take him longer to answer the door. Still nothing. Suddenly, Jim felt incredibly selfish, standing outside of his friend’s room expecting to be let in after the day that he had had. Spock was likely sleeping, and although it was earlier than he normally went to sleep—Spock wasn’t one for napping, Jim had learned a few months into their mission—it made sense that he was exhausted. 

Jim shook his head at his foolish behavior and was about to turn away when his head felt like it was being split open. The boxed chess board clattered to the floor as both of his hands instinctively reached up to his head. The pressure was excruciating—as if someone had reached into his mind and was trying to pull a piece of him out. 

He sunk to his knees in the empty hallway and took a shuddering breath. Eyes slipping closed, he focused on pushing back the pain and tried to find its source. If he could figure out what was wrong, he would know whether to call Bones or put the ship on alert for telepathic attacks. Another breath. He shoved his way past the pain in his mind and reached for the root of it. As he searched, he became aware of a thin thread of...something weaving its way through his mind. Instinctively, he grabbed at it—as much as one could grab something that existed only in one’s own mind—and pulled. For a moment, nothing happened, and then it was like he had broken a barrier in his own mind, as thoughts and feelings that were not his own rushed in. His eyes snapped open.

“ _ Spock.” _

The name left his lips like a prayer. Spock was in danger on the other side of the door, and although he couldn’t say where the knowledge came from, he knew it was true, as sure as he knew his own name.

In an instant, he was on his feet. “Computer, override lock, Captain’s code: alpha-tango-seven-nine-three,” he barked sharply. The door beeped and then hissed open, revealing the dark interior of Spock’s room. He stepped inside and the door slid shut behind him, plunging the room even deeper into darkness. The room was freezing, likely leftover from when Spock had tried to stave off the effects of pon farr on his own. 

“Computer, lights thirty percent; raise temperature seven degrees.”

As the lights came on and the room slowly began to warm, Jim let out a choked gasp. There, lying on his bed, hands folded neatly across his abdomen, was Spock. Jim might have thought his friend was sleeping, but for the fact that in the seconds he watched, his chest never rose or fell. The Vulcan wasn’t breathing. 

“Spock!” He was at Spock’s side before he even registered giving his body the order to move. He fell to his knees, laying his head on the Vulcan’s stomach, listening past the thundering in his ears. “Come on, come on, Spock,” he muttered under his breath. Nothing. Tears began to gather in Jim’s eyes, but he blinked them away, pressing his ear closer to the fabric covering Spock’s side. Then he heard it.

Thump...thump…

His heart was still beating, which meant he was still alive. But it was slow, far too slow to be healthy. He looked around the room for some sign of whatever or whoever did this to Spock, but there was nothing. Then his eyes landed on the terminal screen, still alight with its last order. On it, blinked a recording file. He rose and stepped toward it, dread pooling in his stomach as he read the words there: ‘To Captain James Kirk: An Explanation of My Shai-tevakh’. 

“No, no, no,” he whispered, rushing back to Spock’s side and shaking the Vulcan’s shoulders. “No, Spock. You can’t. I won’t let you!” He choked back a sob, his fingers digging into the material of Spock’s shirt as he sat on the bed and pulled Spock’s upper body into his lap. He began to card one hand through the Vulcan’s hair, tears splashing against the blue shirt. 

“Why, Spock? Why would you do this to me? I’m alive, and you’re alive, and you have to know that I would pay any price if it meant being able to keep you near me,” he half-whispered, half-sobbed. “I swear I will do anything you need me to do, but you have to wake up, Spock. I still need you.”

He thought about calling Bones, but he knew it was hopeless. The shai-tevakh, or self-death, was an old Vulcan rite, and according to the one text he had read about it, it was impossible to reverse unless the Vulcan undergoing it willingly stopped the process. Spock was committing suicide in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

He pulled the Vulcan closer. His heartbeat had slowed even more. 

Bowing his head, Jim focused on the thread he had felt in his mind. That was how he had known that Spock was in trouble in the first place. It still glowed faintly, and as he carded his hand through Spock’s hair once again, it glowed brighter for a brief moment before dimming again. His eyes snapped open, and he looked down at Spock’s face as realization surged through him. 

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

He shifted the hand that wasn’t in Spock’s hair down until he was holding one of Spock’s limp hands tightly in his own. Then, he shut his eyes and focused on the bond—because that’s what this thing was between them, a Vulcan bond—and  _ pulled _ on it as hard as he could.

_ ‘You are not leaving me,’ _ he projected as fiercely as he could over their connection.  _ ‘I don’t care if you think you’re broken or you’ve hurt me or whatever it is that you used to justify this, but you are not leaving me. I need you, Spock, I want you. So don’t you dare leave me alone.’ _

. . .

Spock was floating. His mind had all but disconnected from his body, and even it was moving sluggishly. It wouldn’t be long now before he shut down altogether. It was...a freeing feeling, knowing that soon he would pass from this realm of existence. 

But then the darkness he was floating in suddenly flared to life. The bond that he had been blocking so as not to cause Jim any more pain was shining brilliantly in his mind, the sickly rot that had clung to it burning away in the face of the brilliance that flowed over it now. The confusion lasted for an instant, and then suddenly Jim was  _ there _ in his mind. He could not see his t’hy’la, but he could feel his firm resolve.

_ ‘You are not leaving me.’  _ Jim declared over their bond, the words strong despite his inexperience with telepathic communication.  _ ‘I don’t care if you think you’re broken or you’ve hurt me or whatever it is that you used to justify this, but you are not leaving me. I need you, Spock, I want you. So don’t you dare leave me alone.’ _

Part of Spock wanted to resist, to continue the shai-tevakh and put an end to the pain he could feel in his t’hy’la, but the larger part of him was helpless to deny Jim’s command, just as he always had been. 

He seized the light of their bond and allowed Jim to pull him from oblivion. 

Spock gasped as his eyes flew open, a long shuddering breath that seemed to last an age. Then his eyes met Jim’s, and everything else was forgotten. Anger, despair, and hope were fighting for territory in his t’hy’la’s gaze, and he ached to know that he had caused the pain he saw. 

. . .

For a few moments, Jim could do nothing but stare at Spock. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to hold Spock to him and never let him go. In the end, he did none of those things. Instead, he helped Spock sit up and settled across from him, intertwining their fingers and staring the Vulcan in the eyes. He was angry, he was  _ furious _ , but he knew that anger would only push Spock away, so he carefully closed off his mind as best he could and said, “I think I deserve an explanation, Spock. You can take as long as you need, but I’m not leaving this room until I understand why you did what you did.” His words were quiet, but they brooked no argument. 

A long moment passed, and then Spock sagged against the wall and nodded. “An explanation is the least of what I owe you, Captain.”

“Jim. Please.”

Spock bowed his head. “Of course. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts, Jim.”

Jim nodded and loosened his grip on Spock’s hands, although he didn’t let them go. He could feel the bond in his mind still, although it was dim. They were both shielding from each other, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. 

Eventually, he felt Spock take a deep breath, and he sat up a little straighter, ready to listen to everything the Vulcan had to say without interrupting.

“As I am certain you are aware,” Spock began, his gaze fixed on a point just past Jim’s shoulder, “a mind bond exists between us now. It formed during the kal-if-fee, moments before your supposed death. Such a spontaneous bonding is extremely rare and occurs only between the most compatible of minds. Ours is a t’hy’la bond, one that connects two people who are friends, brothers, and lovers, and more.” 

Jim couldn’t help the quiet gasp that escaped him. Spock’s words were devoid of emotion, but he knew for such a bond to form, he had to feel  _ something _ toward him. Spock’s eyes darkened at the sound and he ducked his head. “I bonded you without your permission,” he stated quietly in that same empty tone. “To do so is one of the gravest crimes a person can commit on my planet, but it is not so grave as intentionally causing harm to one’s bondmate. I have done both. Shai-tevakh is the only solution available to a Vulcan who harms his t’hy’la. It is only logical to rid the universe of the one who has caused such pain and could do so again.”

Suddenly, Spock met Jim’s eyes and Jim could read pain there that was deeper than anything he had ever seen from the Vulcan. “Please, Jim, return to Vulcan with me. There are healers there who can sever the bond and free you from me. Do not allow me to cause you further harm.”

. . .

Jim was silent for forty-nine seconds, long enough for Spock to wonder if the man had heard his words or understood what they meant. Just as he was about to repeat his plea, however, Jim shifted forward and squeezed his hands for a moment before letting go and moving his hands to grasp his shoulders. 

“Is that what you want?” the man asked in a whisper, eyes boring into Spock, seeming to stare into his very  _ katra _ . “To dissolve the bond?”

“It would be unethical to allow it to remain,” Spock responded in an equally quiet tone, unable to tear his gaze away. “It was formed without your consent.”

“And if I gave my consent? If I told you that I want to keep the bond? Would you still want to break it?”

Jim had leaned forward, and his presence was nearly overwhelming. He couldn’t mean the words he said, and yet the look in his eyes was one of total honesty and earnestness. Spock swallowed. “You do not understand,” he began. “Vulcans bond for life. When my next pon farr comes, I will be drawn to you because of our bond, and I will either claim you or perish in the fires of the plak tow. It would be dangerous for you.”

Jim nodded. “I know, and I’m okay with that. Spock, if you don’t want the bond, I understand, and I will turn this ship around right now, Starfleet be damned.” He leaned forward even more until there was nowhere Spock could look but in his eyes. “But if you want this, I want to keep it. I want the bond, Spock, I want you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Spock shook his head. “Please, Jim, do not accept the bond because you believe that it is what I need or I desire. I will not force you to tie yourself to me.” He would rather die.

To Spock’s surprise, Jim let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head, tears in his eyes. “I’ve wanted to be with you for months, Spock, but I never let myself believe that you could feel the same way.” A protest was on Spock’s lips, but the man stopped him by saying, “If you don’t believe my words, maybe you’ll believe this.” And then the bond burst aflame.

Hope and joy and anger and determination and relief and a million other emotions lept from Jim’s mind to his own, but overshadowing them all was a brilliant love that pulsed with the light of a thousand stars, warming Spock from the inside out. The bond hummed with it, and Spock was helpless to do anything but push his own love and desire back in response. Jim’s eyes widened and then his face split into a blinding grin. 

“T’hy’la,” Spock murmured, and Jim’s smile widened, tears spilling down his cheeks. There was hardly any space between them now, but Spock closed what little distance was left to kiss his bondmate, tasting salt and joy. 

When they finally pulled apart, Jim’s arms went around his waist and he buried his face in Spock’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare pull a stunt like that ever again,” he ordered fiercely, his fingers digging into the fabric of Spock’s shirt. 

Spock smoothed his hands down Jim’s back before tracing his way back up and burying one of them in his hair. “I will not be parted from you, t’hy’la,” he promised, leaning down to whisper in Jim’s ear. “Forgive me.”

Jim choked back a sob and squeezed him tighter, and Spock returned the embrace, love and contentment and relief flowing across their brightly glowing bond. 

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? It's been ages since I posted a story, and it feels really good to write these two. I have a thing about Spock attempting suicide and Jim coming to his rescue, specifically when pon Farr is involved. As always, I adore comments with my entire heart; they make my day. If you wanna come yell at me, my Tumblr is @herenya-writes. Thanks for reading!


End file.
